


A Study in Anorexia

by madeleinefs



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Addiction, Angst, Anorexia, Bulimia, Depression, Doctor John Watson, Eating Disorders, Hospitalization, Hurt Sherlock, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, John to the Rescue, Mental Health Issues, Self-Harm, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, St Bartholomew's Hospital, Starvation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-20
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2018-12-04 13:03:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 11,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11555760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madeleinefs/pseuds/madeleinefs
Summary: A realistic approach as to what Sherlock would look like suffering from an eating disorder. This will not be a Johnlock, or some sort of sick-and-then-love-heals-all story, because that isn't realistic. I want this to be realistic, and true to the characters, as well as true to the nature of the disease.





	1. Swallow Your Worry

TRIGGER WARNING: EATING DISORDERS  

 

\-- 

 

“Eating slows down my thought processes, John,” Sherlock mumbled in a monotone voice. This wasn’t a lie, of course--Sherlock was addicted to being high, and starvation was just another form of it. His senses were heightened, his deductions quicker, and he wasn’t slowed down by his body’s need for fuel. It must be so difficult for the rest of the world to require meal breaks. He had that time to look for cases and interview potential suspects. The only downside was that his hands shook, which made playing the violin a bit difficult. 

He was also aware that his figure was shrinking. He didn’t mind--lighter, more agile, more capable of chasing down a criminal if he was in shape, of course. He didn’t care much for his appearance, and his newfound publicity was only making this dislike grow. The camera adds five kilograms, and it was a discerning notion that losing weight would improve his public image, which he hadn’t initially cared about, until his blog began to attract a thousand views a day, and he was met with another outlet to show off. (He didn’t need anyone’s praise for being brilliant--he knew he was already--but he almost enjoyed it being shared knowledge. Before John, every bloke he had met and verbalized his deductions to had a very different reaction than impressed.) 

In some way, Sherlock was aware that he was making excuses for his obsessive behavior, and that his relationship with food was unhealthy, but it was better than shooting up drugs, and so he allowed it to continue. He convinced himself that he was in part losing weight to improve his public image, and thus attract more cases, but this was not the case. And of course, it may have started out like that, but the high he was on now was amazing and addicting. Two weeks without food (thirteen days to be exact), and it was much cheaper than cocaine. 

“Eating slows down your thought process?” John made a face. “I don’t understand.” 

“Yes, wonderful example of what I am trying to avoid.” 

“Sherlock, when was the last time you ate?” John sat down across from Sherlock and set his plate on the table. 

“I don’t know, what was that holiday with the rabbits? I believe I had a poached egg from Ms. Hudson then.” Sherlock didn’t look up from his computer--he was researching the tactile qualities of different furs. 

“The rabbits--do you mean Easter? Sherlock, that’s...you haven’t eaten for two weeks?” John’s voice lept an octave and Sherlock glowered. 

“What, John?” 

“You are eating breakfast.” 

“Can’t. On a case.” 

“You are not!” 

“I am. Lestrade’s found something.” 

“He hasn’t texted.” 

The doorbell rang. Sherlock leapt up and gave John a smug look. “You may join me if you’d like.” 

John scarfed down his toast and followed, trying to swallow his worry as well.


	2. Not On Drugs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was posted on FF.net, but as I am more active here, I deleted it there (so as to not cause any confusion) and am in the process of moving it here and continuing the story as well. Please remember that this whole story touches on the topic of Anorexia (subtype purging in later chapters), and if you are concerned you may be triggered, please take care of yourself first. Ta!

It had been about a week since the Black Lotus case had closed. Sherlock was on the couch, eyes closed, hands pressed together and to his lips in a praying position. He wanted toast. 

His weight had plummeted from around 78kg to 66kg. He wasn’t underweight by any means--he was fit. Almost attractive now. He had ditched his weeks of fasting and now was eating about three meals a week. Much more effective, and he didn’t feel as sick as he had. John hadn’t brought up the situation since. Molly was the only one who seemed to notice, or if anyone else had, they hadn’t mentioned it. It was a nice little experiment he had going on--the effects of starvation on deduction. 

Of course, he was intelligent enough to realize that he was, in fact, starving himself. He realized that the health complications of this behavior were potentially life threatening if allowed to continue, but the world was so bright and open with the weightlessness that starvation brought. 

A little twinge of--what was it? Guilt, almost?--hit him. Eating had become somewhat of a dreaded task. He was beginning to detest having any sort of sustenance in his body. It made him feel heavy and dirty. 

Sherlock opened his eyes and swung his legs over the edge of the cough. He pulled his pc onto his lap from the coffee table and opened a tab. 

“Diagnoses criteria for restrictive eating disorders” 

He hesitated a fraction of a second before hitting enter. 

According to the DSM-5 criteria, to be diagnosed as having Anorexia Nervosa a person must display: Persistent restriction of energy intake leading to significantly low body weight (in context of what is minimally expected for age, sex, developmental trajectory, and physical health) . 

He scrolled a bit. Satisfied that he was not candidate for a diagnosis, he closed the laptop and placed it back. 

He wanted toast. He sniffed, and decided to make his way to the kitchen. 

John walked up the stairs just as Sherlock was sitting down to eat. 

“Busy day then?” John nodded at Sherlock’s apparel, which consisted of a bed sheet and (hopefully) boxers. Sherlock nodded once and picked up his toast. He studied it and then set it back down. The thought of having food in his body repelled him. John had taken off his jacket and was standing at the counter. He watched his roommate poke at the food before him, and frowned. 

“Any new cases?” 

“Mmm, what? No. A few fours. Not worth my time.” 

“Ah. Er, Sherlock?” 

“What is it, John?” 

“Have you lost weight?” 

“Excellent deduction. There may be hope for you yet.” 

John snorted in frustration. “Are you okay? Are you ill?” he instinctively reached out and felt Sherlock’s forehead. Sherlock didn’t protest. He picked the crust off his toast. “Well you don’t have a fever.” He moved his hand down to Sherlock’s wrist. Sherlock did protest at this, and whipped his hand away. John frowned further. 

“I know what your pulse should be, Sherlock, give it back. I’m concerned.” he snatched the detective’s arm, and pressed a finger to his wrist. “Sherlock, it’s slower than last time I checked. Are you starving yourself?” John did the math fast. 

“I can’t eat while I’m on a case, John!” 

“You aren’t on a case!” 

“I am fully aware of that, thank you! If one pops up, I need to be ready.” 

“Sherl--do you realize how ridiculous you sound?” 

Sherlock stood up abruptly, letting the sheet fall (he was wearing boxers, thankfully). John’s eyes narrowed. “You have lost way too much weight. I am a doctor, and I know that this pace of weightloss is unhealthy and unsustainable. Your pulse is already slower--when will you take care of yourself?” 

“At least I’m not on drugs!” Sherlock threw up his hands and retired back to the sofa. 

“I bet you’d be a lot easier to deal with if you were.” 

Sherlock rolled on his side, his back to the room. “Ditto,” he called out.


	3. Brittle

"John!" Sherlock called from across the house. John was upstairs in his room brooding, but headed downstairs at the his roommate's request.

"What is it, Sherlock?" he sighed.

Sherlock sat motionless on the couch, brow furrowed, lips parted in what seemed like surprise. "I...I believe my arm's broken."

John's chest tightened and he quickly joined Sherlock on the couch. Sherlock held out his arm and John felt along the radius gently. Sherlock winced when he hit the fracture but didn't say anything. "Yep, going to need an x-ray to see but it feels like a clean break. C'mon." John grabbed his jacket. "Got a machine at the office."

"That hardly seems necessary, John, can't you just wrap it? What use are you?"

"Pretending that you didn't say that. It'll take two minutes."

"Bollocks," huffed Sherlock, holding his arm. "Do you have morphine?"

"Yep, but none for you." They made their way out of the apartment and John hailed a cab.

Sherlock struggled to buckle his seatbelt, and John helped him. "How'd you break it?"

"Fell."

Red flags. John held his tongue for the moment, and decided to wait until they were in the office to approach the subject.

-

"Now, your arm is splinted and stable, so shut up about the morphine Sherlock. What is going on?"

"In terms of world affairs or?" They were in a private exam room. Sherlock pitifully cradled his arm from atop the table where he was sitting. John finished putting away the casting materials Sherlock had refused.

"No, Sherlock. I am a doctor, as you seem to keep forgetting. I know when something's up."

"I'm fine, John."

"Why'd you fall?"

"I got dizzy."

"Your bone shouldn't have broken. I've been watching your eating habits, Sherlock. This isn't sustainable or healthy."

"I am healthy."

"So you wouldn't object to a second opinion?"

Sherlock smirked. "Examine me, doctor."

"You bloody-hmph." John felt his ears turn red. Was this why Ms. Hudson was convinced he was gay? This psychopath's comments?

"I will," he retorted. "Undress."

"All the way?"

"Sherlock, I'm not in the mood to play out your homosexual doctor fantasies. I'm really concerned. Take off your fucking shirt."

Sherlock reverse smiled and complied with difficulty (it was hard with one hand).

"Shit, Sherlock," John pursed his lips. Sherlock's formerly lean figure was replaced by bones and a concave stomach. Under the florescent lights, John could see clearly that his cheekbones were even more prominent than usual, and that bruises littered his back. John got out a stethoscope. "Breathe."  
His heart rate was scarily slow, and his breathing was shallow. "Can you even breathe?"

"Obviously, I am doing it now."

"Is it difficult?"

"Nope." Sherlock emphasised the "P" and made a popping sound. He was incredibly bored. This was unnecessary and a waste of his time.

"Any chest pains?"

"Minor ones. Is this really necessary, John? I'm not one of your patients," spat Sherlock.

"Chest pain, slow pulse, shallow breathing, rapid weight loss. Brittle bones. But by all means, I can stop. I'm sure your brother has top-of-the-line doctors that would be fine seeing you as a patient instead. They may be a bit more invasive, but-"

"Oh shut up. I know what poor health looks like. I do not qualify."

"Lay down."

The paper crinkled under his sunken-in body as Sherlock put his head back against the raised pillow. He made sure to not disrupt his arm and held it against his body. He sighed. It had been a very long time since he had been seen by a doctor, and he typically avoided human contact at all costs.

John surveyed the damage, and Sherlock watched him. His ribs were protruding, hip bones raised from under his belts. John pressed on Sherlock's abdomen, and Sherlock jumped and hit away John's hand. He couldn't do this. "Sherlock, I'm not done!" 

"Yes you are, unless you need me to cough, but people may talk if they heard you've handled my testicles." he smiled in annoyance.

"I'll call your brother."

"And tell him what, that I'm on a diet? Maybe he'll take the inspiration."

"That you're ill and intentionally starving yourself."

"It's for an experiment!"

"You are wreaking havoc on your body for an experiment? Sherlock, no more. I am putting my foot down, no more!"

"Okay."

"You--wait, 'okay'?"

"Yes, alright John. Experiment over. Inconclusive."

"Good. Let's go get lunch, then." John didn't believe a word.


	4. Like an Addict

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo little info: I've noticed that all the ana fics are about Sherlock being sick and then suddenly recovering through the magical powers of Johnlock love, and I just want to let you all know,, that eating disorders are not that simple. There are good days in the midst of the ED hell, but there is no instant way out. For most anorexics/bulimics, there is NO way out. A lot of EDs end in death, and if they don't, they take on average 20+ years off your life anyway. AnYwAy, if you were wondering why this process of John freaking out and checking SH out is happening so quickly, it is because after people find out you have an eating disorder, you receive treatment very quickly from my experience. When I first started to lose a ton of weight, my teachers noticed and called a meeting with my mom. I had told someone about my dieting habits, and within a week of it coming to my mother's attention, I was in a program. SO. I'm trying to make this story realistic and not boring and mhm.

The waitress placed a plate of beans, toast, and eggs in front of Sherlock, and a sandwich before John. "Thanks," John smiled, and then turned his attention to Sherlock, waiting for him to eat. Sherlock struggled to pick up a fork with his left hand and eventually gave up and picked up a dry piece of toast with his fingers. He studied it and set it back down. "Sherlock." John warned.  
Sherlock's mind was racing. He didn't know why he was freaking out-one meal wouldn't make him gain weight. He looked down at himself. He could stand to lose another ten or twenty pounds, though. This meal would make him unattractive and cloudy. He didn't need to eat yet anyway, did he? He furrowed his brow.

"I don't feel well."

"Yes, because you don't bloody eat."

"John, I'm not hungry."

"Sherlock, I will call your brother."

Sherlock looked up. The hurt was apparent on his face. "John, that's hardly necessary."

"Anorexia is not something to mess around with."

"I'm not-oh for god's sake," Sherlock crammed an egg into his mouth. "Ee? 'M ood," he said through chewing. John had never seen him eat so quickly. The meal was devoured within five minutes. John didn't say anything. Sherlock excused himself to the bathroom.

-

Sherlock wiped the sick from his mouth, bent over the sink in the bathroom, for once in his life at a loss for thought. He had no idea what the fuck he had just done—or why he had done it. He was a healthy(ish) middle-aged man. Eating disorders were for teenage girls who wanted to impress boys and fit into size 0 pants. Sherlock had no need to lose weight, not really. So why had he just made himself sick? He took his pulse from the side of his neck—it was racing. What did purging lead to? He tried to remember. Electrolyte imbalance, which could lead to cardiac arrest. In the event of repeated behaviors, tooth decay, esophagus damage, sores. He furrowed his brow. What had the articles said? He couldn't remember. His hands were shaking rapidly and he felt sick. His chest hurt dreadfully, and he clutched it pathetically with his free arm. He felt (to his surprise) almost like crying. Of course, that wouldn't be appropriate or necessary, and he didn't cry, but the feeling was at the back of his throat, threatening his calm demeanor.

What had come over him? He had wanted so badly to prove a point to John, that he was okay, and that he could eat, but the feeling of food in his stomach had made him feel heavy and ugly, like he couldn't be seen in public. Sherlock splashed some water in his face, hoping to hide the tears that vomiting had caused, and reduce the redness around his eyes. He looked like a drug addict.

He snorted. He looked like himself.

The door opened, and Sherlock bolted upright. Not John. He breathed a sigh of relief, and patted his face dry. John would disprove, and he craved John's approval. No one else had ever shown any pride in him, save for his parents when he was very young. He didn't want to do anything to jeopardize that. Never again, he decided. Never again would he purposely make himself vomit. Unless he had ingested poison, which in his profession wasn't extremely unlikely. But other than that, not again. Good.


	5. Showers

A few weeks, and then months passed without much action. Weekly cases, new blog entries, new dates. Sherlock had resumed eating like normal again. John was extremely pleased to see this, yet there was the ever-nagging suspicion that Sherlock was not as healthy as he outwardly appeared. His splint had come off, and John hadn't managed another glimpse of his body since. Sherlock was extra careful to alway wear layers around John, so the doctor really had no clue as to the shape he was in physically. He tried not to worry about it, but began noticing small details that led him to be concerned anyway.

Sherlock's hair was thinning—John regularly found clumps of curly charcoal hair in the trash. Not just small strands—whole locks. Sherlock had also began drinking diet soda, while John hadn't seen him drink more than tea, coffee, or water since moving in. He would go through packs of soda a week, which couldn't be healthy in and of itself. But John didn't say anything until he found Sherlock passed out on the floor of the shower about six months after John's initial realization of his habits.

John hadn't intended on interrupting Sherlock's personal routines at all, but he had been out all day, and Sherlock had been in the bathroom when he arrived home from work. This wasn't abnormal, but after about an hour passed, John had become suspicious, and when Sherlock hadn't responded at his pounding at the door, John had let himself in.

An emaciated boy was crumpled in a ball in the corner of the tub, his face out of water but the rest of his body being pelted with steaming showers. John stood frozen initially before jumping to turn off the water and get Sherlock.

A bag of bones. Few coherent thoughts were forming for John, who had lifted the detective from the ground to the bedroom. He saw naked people all the time, and nudity didn't bother him, but Sherlock looked to be something out of a concentration camp. He hadn't stirred at John's placing him on the bed, but he was breathing. "I'm fine."

"You're awake?" John started. He had assumed that Sherlock had been unconscious. "Why were you on the ground?" he had gotten his phone out to phone Molly and an ambulance.

"Don't call Molly," Sherlock warned, eyeing his phone.

"I thought—Sherlock, this has got to stop." Sherlock closed his eyes and John quickly sent a text and put his phone away. Sherlock was breathing with difficulty, soaking wet, water darkening the bed sheets where he lay.

"I passed out and couldn't be bothered with getting up. John, I would appreciate it if you could exit my bedroom."

"No, Sherlock, I am not bloody leaving you! You just fainted and couldn't even get yourself up! I am concerned for your health!"

"I am naked."

"I've seen naked men before, Sherlock, but here." he tossed a blanket over his body. "I have never, however, seen anyone as underweight as you."

Sherlock closed his eyes and tugged the blanket snug. His hands were shaking, and open sores littered his knuckles. John could feel his own hands shaking as well.

"When did it start?"

"Before you. It has…progressed. It was an experiment."

"Why the hell—"

"I enjoyed my findings so I repeated the motions until it became habit. I can cease it at any moment." Sherlock appeared unfazed.

"No, no I don't think you can. I think if you could've stopped, you would've before it got to this point."

"I am hardly at a place where it would be necessary to end this behavior. I am fine."

"Sherlock—"

"Are you crying, John? Man up a bit," Sherlock scoffed.

"Right, well, fuck you Sherlock. I don't want to see you dead."

"John—"

"You have a problem. Please, let me help." John was hovering over Sherlock. Sherlock didn't respond "Molly is coming."

Sherlock flinched. "I figured. Been listening for the sirens."

As if on cue, a wail could be heard outside, and gradually got louder until it stopped. Molly and a crew of two doctors jogged into the living room moments later. John went to meet them. "I—I let myself in," Sherlock heard Molly say. "You said there was an emergency."

"Yes, thank you. Er, not them."

"Oh, right, well, they can go wait in the ambulance. Um, leave the stuff please, though, thank you, I'll be out in a minute."

Footsteps down the stairs. Murmuring. Sherlock wanted to get up, to get dressed, to leave the apartment and all of London in general, but he could barely move.

"Is it Sherlock? Is he on drugs again?"

John paced urgently through the doorway to Sherlock, and Molly followed. "Sherlock," he warned.

"Fuck off, John, c'mon, this is rubbish. Get out!"

"Mycroft or us."

Sherlock smiled angrily and pulled off his sheet. "Fine, enjoy!"

Molly, having imagined seeing Sherlock naked multiple times before, felt her heart sink in disgusted surprise. He was very, very ill.

"Oh god."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for reading and leaving kudos!! Please feel free to review, and if you want to contribute please message me xx


	6. in which Bad Stuff continues

“Oh god,” she whispered. 

“What, never seen a penis?” 

“Sherlock, this isn’t funny!” she hissed. John carried a bag to the bedside and set it on the floor. 

“He needs fluids. He passed out in the shower.” John was digging around though what Molly had packed. 

“Yeah, I brought a couple bags for a drip. I didn’t know…he should really go to the hospital…” 

“Yeah, I know, but it’s bloody Sherlock, you know he won’t-“ 

“I know, I just, wow, I didn’t realize…” 

“I didn’t either, I mean I knew a bit, but not—“ 

“I can hear you!” hissed Sherlock, feeling rather sorry for himself. Neither of his companions acknowledged him. 

“Just do a full work up here, if it’s bad enough, we can get Mycroft involved.” 

John stood up, apparently satisfied he had found what he was seeking, and pulled up a chair beside Sherlock’s bed. He pulled Sherlock’s arm straight and rubbed a cool cotton ball in the crook of his elbow. “Sherlock, don’t jump, it’s going to poke you and I don’t want to miss your vein.” 

“John, please don’t, I don’t need it,” Sherlock all but begged. “Please, really, I’m alright, it will make me—“ 

“Fat?” John finished. Sherlock didn’t respond, furrowed his brow. “Right, well, it won’t, and you know it won’t, but you need this.” 

Molly gingerly placed a hand on Sherlock’s head, and pulled the sheet back over his lower half. 

The needle stung in the way it always did, yet this time instead of getting high, he was met with the uncomfortable cool rush of fluid through his veins. He didn’t like it much. John then expertly drew blood from his other arm, and Molly listened to his heart and gave him an exam. Sherlock laid perfectly still, and didn’t speak the whole time. He did not like being prodded or looked at as if he were a specimen, especially not by two of the people whose company he could tolerate the most. He felt some sort of embarrassment, almost, which was a fairly foreign emotion that he did not appreciate in the slightest. He was still sopping wet as well, and his back end hurt from where he had fallen in the shower. 

“Your heart rate is dangerously low, and you are very dehydrated. I don’t have a scale here but from the looks of it you are at a BMI that is extremely unsafe. I'm surprised you haven't passed out before now." 

Sherlock gritted his teeth and said nothing. He had passed out a few times. Once beside the toilet bowl after a particularly grueling purging session. Once while looking for clues in a field. No one had seen, of course. But he now met the DSM V criteria for having Anorexia Nervosa, which filled him with a small hint of pride. He could manipulate his health to fit whatever specifications he wanted. He was in complete control of his weight; a feat most Brits struggled with greatly. 

"Sherlock--" a soft warning from Molly. She was prying at his hands, and Sherlock glanced down. He hadn't realized he was wrapping the IV tube around his fingers, cutting off the fluid's travel into his bloodstream. He loosened his grip. 

"Sherlock, you need to eat." 

Sherlock didn't say anything.


	7. Missed Calls

Sherlock woke up in the early hours of the morning. John was asleep in a chair beside his bed. Sherlock furrowed his brow, confused, and then the details of the previous day’s events came back to him. His eyes flew to his hand, where an IV catheter was taped in place. He quietly stopped the drip and peeled the tape back, and removed the needle from his vein. Pressing on his hand to stop the bleeding, Sherlock slowly stood from the bed and crept to his closet. John stirred as Sherlock found a pair of trousers and a shirt (he was still naked), but didn’t wake. Good. He dressed in the kitchen, pulled on a pair of shoes and his coat, and quickly exited 221B. 

He felt gross and dirty from the fluids. Of course, they only combatted his dehydration, and wouldn’t cause any weight gain, but he felt…violated? Something which he did not approve of had been put into his body without his consent. 

He wouldn’t let it happen again. 

It was dark, and Sherlock didn’t know where to go. The sun had only barely begun to turn the navy sky a dark green-orange, and the streets were empty. He started walking, letting his feet carry him wherever they would. 

When he got to the crack house, Sherlock was panting and clutching his chest—his pulse was dangerously heightened, and his vision was blurry. When he finally collapsed on a cot among passed-out druggies, he started to realize the severity of what he was doing. 

But he wasn’t going to stop. 

A few hours later, Sherlock was startled awake by a man shaking his shoulder. “Oi, Sherlock, are you alright?” Sherlock recognized him as an addict named Angus. He’d always shown Sherlock utmost respect and kindness, and now concern was splayed across his face. “You look like a corpse.” 

Sherlock groaned and sat up. “Yes, thank you.” 

Angus’s worry didn’t fade, but he stepped away, knowing better than to question farther. 

Sherlock pulled out his phone. 

John: Missed call (4) 7:46 AM   
Mycroft: Missed call (1) 7:51 AM   
Molly: Missed call (2) 7:59 AM 

It was 8:08 AM. Sherlock was sure he had under an hour before John or Mycroft found him. Probably less. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to his feet and steadied himself against the wall. He had to get away. Where would he go, though? He had no one besides John. 

He wanted to weigh himself, to see if he had put on weight. Yesterday, he weighed 52 kilograms. He was aiming for 50, though. 50 was a nice number. 

Sherlock hailed a cab to a Sainsbury’s just outside the city. He wanted Costa, and though he usually avoided crowded places, he felt as though there was safety in numbers today. Harder for John to find him. 

The Costa's queue was short, and within a few minutes of walking through the Sainsbury's doors, he had coffee in his hand. Black. Two Splenda. 

He then busied himself walking from aisle to aisle. Sipping his bitter coffee, he picked up item after item in a sort of ritualistic fashion, checking the calories, calories from fat, fat, sugars. He was hungry. After a while, though, the store grew busier as the morning progressed. He suddenly felt extremely self-conscious. People would recognize him. People would see him purchasing food. People would judge what he was eating, look at his weight, think about how Fat That Detective Has Become. 

He knew, though, that he needed calories quickly. The goal wasn't death, simply a bit of weight loss. He went back to the Costa and bought a scone with jam and clotted cream, and then hurried from the building.


	8. A Relapse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kudos!

Sherlock hadn't answered John's calls. He hasn't answered Molly's or Mycroft's, either. Mycroft had been asleep when Sherlock left the flat, so he hadn't been tracking his brother's movements. 

Sherlock could be anywhere. 

Of course, knowing the man, he wouldn't go too far. Sherlock hated traveling, and he was far too ill to carry himself across the country anyway. 

John was at a loss. Why was Sherlock doing this to himself? He was lean enough as it was. He knew Sherlock's mindset was that his body was Only Transport, but even a car needs fuel to go anywhere. 

When he had called Mycroft, John was surprised to hear that this wasn't the development of an eating disorder as he had assumed, but a relapse. Mycroft had originally stuck to a laissez-faire method, in the hopes that the disorder would go away on its own, and it had. From John's description of Sherlock's attitude, and Mycroft's recent observations himself, he feared that more drastic measures would have to be taken this time around. 

They really couldn't do anything without his consent without having him sectioned, but Sherlock was more than competent enough to fight that even though his bloodwork Molly had pulled had come back as worrisome. He supposed, since Mycroft was The Government embodied, that they may be able to go around legalities (it seemed they had never had a problem doing this before), but the whole thing made John very uncomfortable. Sherlock was in pain, and he didn’t want to upset him any farther. In a perfect world, Sherlock would snap out of it and recover on his own, but Sherlock was a man of extremes, and John feared that he may be in too far to save himself now. 

He pulled out his phone again and dialed Sherlock’s number for the umpteenth time that morning. 

Surprisingly, Sherlock answered. 

“Sherlock! Where are you? Are you okay?” John rushed. 

“Hello? I, uh, your friend is—“ an unfamiliar voice answered John. 

“What’s happened?” John felt his heart in his throat. He quickly pulled on a coat and scrambled out of the flat. 

“He’s passed out. Looks fine, bit o’ blood. I called 999.” 

“Where are you?” 

John hailed a cab and called Mycroft. He was headed to A&E to meet Sherlock when the ambulance arrived.


	9. A&E

Sherlock was rolled into A&E on a stretcher. John had been informed that he hadn’t received any care except oxygen, and he was relieved. Sherlock had a questionable history with drugs and he didn’t want anyone accidentally triggering a relapse. 

Well, another relapse. 

Sherlock had come to, and began to frantically shout once he realized his predicament. Mycroft arrived shortly after, and Sherlock was immediately shown to a private room. 

Sherlock was panicked. He hadn’t meant to pass out, but after eating he had felt disgusting, and so he had made himself sick shortly after. But this time, along with soggy food, Sherlock saw blood in his vomit. He hadn’t had long to process this before he felt his body go limp. Now he was laying on a bed, shirtless, with electrodes stuck to his chest, and a pulse ox clutching his finger. He was relieved to find that he hadn’t received any more fluids, but he needed to get out. Soon. 

“Looks like you’ve gotten yourself into quite a mess, Brother Mine.” Mycroft stepped towards him. John hovered nervously near the door, as if expecting Sherlock to bolt. 

“I wouldn’t be in any mess if you wouldn’t meddle,” Sherlock gritted his teeth. 

“I didn’t put you here, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock was saved from responding when a doctor entered the room. He looked surprised at the amount of people before him, coughed, and spoke; “Mr. Holmes, I’m here to give you an exam. Do you remember what happened?” He flipped through a chart on a clipboard. 

And suddenly, Sherlock curled in on himself, and looked pleadingly at Mycroft. He didn’t want strange hands on him. Mycroft looked at his little brother and sighed. “I am sorry, Sherlock, I really am, but you need help.” John stepped across the room to Mycroft’s side. 

The doctor set down the board and came to the bed. John helped Sherlock into a sitting position and the young doctor unwrapped his stethoscope and pressed it to Sherlock’s chest. He frowned and took the instrument away. “Lay back down for me please.” Cold hands on his abdomen, pressing into his insecurities. “Okay, Sherlock, I’m going to need a weight from you.” 

Sherlock went cold. He didn’t want John seeing how disgustingly large he was. He didn’t want anyone knowing what he weighed. That was his business. Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “I decline.” 

The doctor frowned. “Sherlock, I’ll section you,” Mycroft said emptily. He didn’t really want to know what his brother weighed, either. John remained quiet, his hand subconsciously resting on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock weighed the outcomes, and complied eventually. 

“Fifty-one point two.” 

Silence. John couldn’t believe his ears. Mycroft, too, was seemingly caught off guard. Sherlock rarely saw his brother so outwardly lose composure. It made him feel powerful, to reduce his brother to that. John helped Sherlock back to bed, and the other doctor followed Mycroft outside. Sherlock strained to hear their conversation. 

Moments later, Mycroft reentered the room. 

“Sherlock, your weight has plummeted to an unsustainable low. I explained the situation to the doctors here. You are at risk for cardiac arrest, osteoporosis—“ 

“I’ll eat!” Sherlock managed. 

Mycroft shook his head. “Even now, you are at risk for refeeding syndrome. I had no idea you were this ill. I apologize I didn’t see it sooner. I am making John your primary doctor, but I’m having you sectioned. They need bloods and a urine sample, and then they are tubing you.”


	10. Chapter 9.5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Small add-in. Not a real chapter, chapter.

Sherlock was going to be sectioned. John felt a pang of guilt and horror on his companion’s behalf, but was relieved overall. Sherlock’s hair was thinning, and he had sprouted lanugo all over his frail body. Bruises littered his back, where his spine had pushed against a hard surface. His nails were brittle, and his face was ashen. He looked like a ghost. 

John had researched anorexia treatment recently in anticipation of when Sherlock was inevitably forced into hospital. Sherlock would need a full blood panel to see how much damage had been done to his body, and a urinalysis, and he would be hooked up to sub-q fluids soon as well too (or so he assumed). John frowned. That would be his job to oversee, he realized. He wished Mycroft would’ve asked him before making him Sherlock’s doctor, but he supposed he would prefer that to the alternative. At least they were in Bart’s—John was familiar with part of the staff there, and he knew his way around the hospital well. 

The refeeding would be pretty grueling on Sherlock, and it would had to be started slow. Too much of an increase of intake could lead to electrolyte issues, with referring syndrome. John had witnessed it only a few times before, when starved soldiers had been freed from imprisonment. He had had to monitor their intake until they had been taken back to hospital in England. He recalled one man who had been so frantic for food, he had snuck rations and wound up going into cardiac arrest. John shuddered, picturing Sherlock in the same situation. Except he would be refusing food, and not hoarding it. 

John’s thoughts were interrupted as Sherlock began to yell.


	11. Tube

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for this chapter especially. NG tube placement, etc. 
> 
> At this point, Sherlock is so far into starvation that he is very unlike himself. 
> 
> I tried to keep everything technical and medically correct. I am not a doctor, so if you are and noticed any mistakes, please feel free to correct me.

Sherlock had never been so upset. He screamed at Mycroft, he screamed at John, he screamed at himself. He didn’t know what was wrong with them—why couldn’t they see he was okay?! He lunged up to leave, and John wrestled him down. “Sherlock, listen to me, you are going to be okay.” John’s heart was breaking. Sherlock's weak self struggled against John, but it was like a fly wrestling a spider. His atrophied body slumped into the pillows, and Sherlock clawed at John's arms. 

“John, please, you need to get me out of here, please, they’ll mess it up!” 

“Sherlock, breathe. Please.” 

Sherlock took a couple wavering breaths and composed himself. 

"Mycroft. Please. I'm begging you. Don't let them." 

Mycroft pursed his lips. "I'm afraid, dear brother, that you are far too ill to make decisions regarding your health. You won't feed yourself, and I have no choice but to provide feeding for you." 

A knock sounded at the open door, and the trio looked up. A female nurse walked into the room, followed by a larger male nurse. She carried a tray of packages and what Sherlock was sure was the ng tube. He felt his pulse quicken exponentially, and the monitor above his bed went berserk. John tightened his grip again as Sherlock tried to get up. 

“I’m here to draw your blood, dear, no need to fret.” Sherlock calmed a bit, looking at the nurse. She had a heavy Irish accent, and her red hair was pulled up into a tight ponytail. Sherlock looked at her attire, and the way she carried herself, and tried to find something to deduce to perhaps put her off. His thoughts were clouded and foggy, and he couldn’t find anything. “My name is Jen, how are you feeling?” 

Sherlock pursed his lips and answered with a curt fine. Jen placed a plastic container on the counter. “We’ll need a urine sample when you can, dear.” Sherlock sneered. Jen came around and pulled up a stool beside Sherlock. “I’m going to place a catheter, could I have your arm please?” She frowned as Sherlock held out his arm, feeling along the crook of his elbow for a good vein—Sherlock had extensive scarring there from his habit. Seeming to find what she was after, she tied a band around his arm and wiped the skin clean. “You’re very dehydrated, dear, I’m sorry if this hurts.” 

John watched as she unwrapped a catheter. It was 14-gauge. John hated placing them, as they often caused the patient discomfort—they were big needles, typically only used when the patient needed fluids fast. Jen tried (unsuccessfully) to place the catheter for a good minute. Sherlock had paled considerably, but half his tongue. Mycroft wasn’t so polite. “Are you going to place it, or are you trying to make a pin cushion of my brother?” 

“His veins are shot, I’m sorry. Let me try again.” 

“No need. John, I’m sure you would better be able to handle this task. You are familiar with our patient.” 

John looked up in surprise. “Alright, ah, Sherlock, is that alright?” John didn’t expect a response, and didn’t receive one. He got up to scrub his hands, and then took Jen’s seat. He felt for a vein on the back of Sherlock’s hand. These hadn’t been victim to a decade of drug abuse, but they were shrunken with dehydration. John eventually found one, and retied it off. He cleaned the area, unwrapped a new cannula, and worked the top of the needle into the vein. He hit it first try, pushed the needle in, and removed it, leaving a small tube in the vein. John worked expertly, taping it down, flushing it with 30mL Saline, and then drawing up a couple vials of blood. “That should be set,” John said. 

“Ta,” Jen said, looking embarrassed. She turned to Sherlock. “I’ll put your tube in now.” 

At that, Sherlock immediately tried jumping up. John caught him and pushed him back. The male nurse joined John and held the detective in place from the opposite side. 

Jen unwrapped an ng tube, and came to stand beside John. John tried to calm Sherlock down, tried talking to him, but he was almost in hysterics. 

“I’m sorry, kid,” the nurse sighed. Sherlock stopped yelling momentarily, looking at John with complete sadness. 

“Please, don’t let them,” his voice hitched. 

John put his head to Sherlock’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.” 

Jen pushed the tube up Sherlock’s nose. He felt it rub against his throat as it made its way down. 

Sherlock screamed.


	12. Sleep

Sherlock fought it the whole way. He didn't want this--this was giving up control. This was letting someone else win. It was his body. It wasn't Mycroft's, or John's, or any of the doctors'. It was his. He was capable of feeding himself, and now this, this thing--was going to ruin everything. It burned Sherlock's throat, and his eyes watered. He was offered water to sip, told it'd make it easier, but he didn't want anything in his body. Even water was toxic. They could've slipped oil or sugar into it. He didn't want this. 

The tube was placed and taped in and Sherlock's first instinct was to rip it out, and to run as far as he could from where he was. He had calmed himself down a bit, hovering into the doorway of his Mind Palace. He wasn't in it yet, but he wasn't in the real world quite either. He hovered on the edge of both. On one side, he was about to be forced to gain weight via tube feeding. This made him angry and irritable and distressed, and this was the side that said tear it out, said it's dirty, you're dirty, you disgusting swine. On the other side, as he recessed into the nook between the parlour and the doorframe, he could see the situation from a much more rational point of view. He had overdone it. He wouldn't have a choice of accepting the help now. The more he complied, the sooner he'd be released. He could always lose all the weight again. Most of the gain would just be water weight anyway. Sherlock sighed, willing this mindset to be carried out to the present. He left his palace and opened his eyes to John offering him a cup of ice. Sherlock took a piece, chewed, swallowed, winced. It was more uncomfortable than painful, and the unfamiliarity of his own body functions frustrated him. He was aware that he was being spoken to, but he chose not to hear. 

Sherlock was eventually ushered to radiology, where an X-ray was taken to ensure the tube was placed correctly. 

He thought about bolting. 

He thought about suicide. 

He was brought back to his room. More doctors. A nutritionist. Talking to him. John. Talking to him. Mycroft. He couldn't hear, couldn't listen. 

Some time later he felt an unfamiliar sensation in his stomach. He looked up and panicked when he realized The Feeding had started. He pressed into his abdomen. He was sure he could feel it expand. His heart rate quickened and he grabbed up at John, willing him to please, please take me out of here. 

"It's not going to kill you, Sherlock. In fact quite the opposite. At the rate you were headed, I'm doubtful you would've made it to the holidays." Mycroft spoke up. 

It was October, Sherlock realized absentmindedly. He hadn't been paying any attention to the mundanities of life. He had only cared about his weight. It was all the same anyway, always wet and dreary in London. He was always cold now anyway. 

Sherlock was met with another discomfort as cool fluids hit his bloodstream. He hissed, and pressed his eyes shut. This was too much to handle. 

He was tired. So, so tired. He felt a thick blanket draped across his body. John, probably. He didn't look to see. He was tired. 

Sherlock slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A great thank you to Elle. xx


	13. Brothers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft is Mycroft, but not in the way you are used to. 
> 
> Sherlock realizes some things. 
> 
> Yes, being hospitalized for anorexia IS that gross and uncomfortable.

Sherlock awoke in the middle of the night some time. It was dark in his room, but the hallway lights were glaringly fluorescent and shed in through the door. Sherlock squinted. He had to pee. 

He groaned when he got up, hit with a wave of nausea. His stomach felt foreign. It was round and protruding. He pushed on it, struggling to uncover himself so he could see. The monitors increased a bit, and Sherlock hoped that no busybody nurse would notice. No one did, and so he continued his way out of the bed, careful not to knock the catheter. His tube had been disconnected from the feed, but Sherlock was sure they had over fed him. He lifted up his gown--he had been dressed while he was sleeping, which he didn't appreciate. Where his beautiful concave stomach had been was a large, hard, round mass. Sherlock gingerly pressed his fingers to it. He wanted to rip his skin apart. He took a step toward the bathroom and nearly keeled over. He felt like he had eaten half of England. 

Steps quickened toward him and he waited for the reprimand of a nurse. When cold hands nervously gripped onto him, he realized it was Mycroft. He must've been sitting in the shadows. Sherlock was almost relieved that he wasn't alone--almost, because he was very angry that Mycroft had allowed him to be sectioned. "You should go back to bed." 

"You should...ahk!" Sherlock struggled to straighten up. He was hunched over, cradling his abdomen. 

"Should I call the nurse?" Not a threat. Real worry. Sherlock would've scoffed if he hadn't been in such pain. His brother was going soft. 

"No...I'm fine...need to pee." 

"Let me help you." 

Sherlock was in no place to refuse assistance, so he allowed Mycroft to walk him to the toilet, first unclipping the monitors, and then grabbing the IV stand to roll besides him. His knuckles were white from gripping on to the pole. 

There was a plastic container between the seat and the bowl. Sherlock eyed it wearily. "They measure input and output," Mycroft said. Sherlock sighed in defeat. He had no embarrassment, just overwhelming sadness that it had come to this point. He really hadn't meant it to. 

Mycroft helped him back to bed and readjusted the monitors. Sherlock grimaced and curled into his side. He knew extreme discomfort was a side effect of refeeding, but he hadn't anticipated it to be this painful. His throat was dry and the tube scratched at it dully. As if reading his mind, Mycroft disappeared and returned with a plastic cup of water and a straw. Sherlock didn't want to drink any, but he took a few sips to try and lessen the feeling that he was choking. It helped a bit. 

Sherlock found surprising comfort in knowing that Mycroft was there for him. It was a comfort he never felt from anyone else, his parents included, until John. Mycroft had raised him into what he was. He had fought off the unkind schoolboys; had sheltered him from the realities of the world. He had found Sherlock half dead with a body full of lethal doses of drugs on multiple occasions, and on multiple occasions had nursed him back to health. He had, for all intents and purposes, been Sherlock’s brother, father, mother, and best friend for his whole life. Of course, they had their differences, and in times of health they all but detested each other, but when it mattered, Mycroft was always there. Sherlock struggled to understand himself. He didn’t do well with emotions, or compassion, or hatred even. Everything was sort of blank for him, like an undisturbed pool of water—there were small ripples, he thought, but no waves. Until John, he never really realized what love was, and when he understood that that was what he was feeling, he also realized he felt a similar way towards Mycroft. He would never admit it, but since meeting John, his self-diagnosis of sociopath had changed a bit. He had formed attachments. He understood what it was to care about someone in a completely selfless way. He wanted to spend the rest of his life chasing crimes with John, and now that he was cooped up in a hospital bed, Sherlock was almost scared. He finally had a home, and a life that he cared about enough to stay clean, and it was all going to be lost if he didn’t get control of his eating. 

Able to think clearly for the first time in months, Sherlock realized that he needed to eat. If he carried on the way he was going, he was likely to die of cardiac arrest or a ruptured esophagus. He was frustrated with himself, because though he saw the error that the disorder was bringing to the perfectly coded machine that was his mind, he couldn’t reprogram it. He wanted to live for John, and for Mycroft, but he wanted to lose weight just as much. How selfish am I, he realized. He had never given much thought to how his actions affected others, but he was very disappointed in himself now. 

He needed time to process. He needed time to dig through his mind palace and see how he had arrived here. He needed to fix this. 

But did he? Surely he could lose a bit more weight and be okay. Maybe he’d shoot for 51 instead of 50. 51 was manageable. He was much too large now that he had been fed. He would probably be out of here soon, once they saw that he was weight restored. His abdomen was so bloated that he looked pregnant. Surely he had already put on a substantial amount of weight. 

Sherlock sighed and gritted his teeth. He was still cold. His brain was exhausted from the sensory overload. His bloat, the constant beeping, the stark lights, the unfamiliarity of it all. He wanted his violin. 

Sherlock could feel his mind shutting itself down in an attempt at self-preservation. He felt Mycroft take the cup from his hand and pull a quilt over his shoulders. 

Mycroft bent down and placed his hand on his little brother’s cheek, brushing away the dwindling curls. Sherlock felt lips brush his forehead, but this rare moment of affection was long forgotten by the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the views, kudos, and reviews! 
> 
> Also, how do I italicize things? 
> 
> Ta! xx


	14. Home

CH 13 

John had been sent back to the flat by Mycroft to gather up his and Sherlock's things for the hospital stay. Mycroft was watching over Sherlock for the night, while he was sleeping, and John was to resume post in the morning. He figured it'd be easiest that way--Mycroft knew he wasn't always the most wanted presence, and John agreed that it'd be best if Sherlock awoke to himself and not his brother. Any measure to lessen the stress on Sherlock would be taken. Sherlock's autistic tendencies made any slight inconvenience a cause for great distress, and he was already out of his element in an unfamiliar environment. John and Mycroft knew the balance between Not Good and Meltdown was simply a balancing act, and the hospital made the tightrope a horsehair. 

John let himself into 221B. The building croaked underneath him, seeming to have aged several years in just the few hours he had been gone. The flat felt empty, and still. He could taste the dust and unrest in the air, where he normally could feel the comfort and calm of Home. Sherlock was an overwhelming figure; he gave off an air of passion and craze and safety and control, even in worst situations. This sudden calamity caused John to rethink his view on Sherlock. He was no longer such a machine, though John had never truly seen him as one in the way everyone else did. He could see through Sherlock’s facade. He had learned to read Sherlock’s almost indistinguishable body language, and he knew that Sherlock was at the base of it all just a man. 

A brilliant man no doubt, but just as human as the rest of them. 

John didn’t like the stillness. He set about to quickly throw a week’s worth of clothes in a case, along with his personal medical equipment and his toiletries. Sure, he would be back home frequently, but John was realizing that he truly depended on Sherlock’s constant presence in his life, and the thought of sleeping in the flat alone was unwelcoming. His PTSD nightmares had all but stopped completely since living with Sherlock, and John was sure that it wasn’t just passing time that had caused them to cease. Sherlock emitted, in a way, a completely new sort of unmundane magic. When John had come back from Afghanistan clouded in depression, he believed that his life would forever be in the shadow of What Was, and What Could’ve Been. Since Sherlock, he had taken a new view of What Will Be. The future could hold anything he wanted, and Sherlock's brand of magic was the root of John's hopeful outlook. 

John never once thought that the man responsible for turning his life around would be plagued by such a dangerous disorder as Anorexia Nervosa. Sherlock’s mind was impeccable. He could read people’s lives in their hands, and see through a soul in the way one might look through a window. John didn’t understand how someone with the world at his fingertips could knowingly throw away everything in the name of Being Small. 

A buzz in his pocket pulled John out of his reverie, and he opened his phone to a one-word text from Sherlock. 

Violin. 

John was momentarily caught off guard, first having assumed that Sherlock was asleep, and then wondering why his phone hadn’t been confiscated. Of course, the answer to the latter was that he was Sherlock, and that his brother was Great Britain, and rules don’t apply to such people as they applied to the commonwealth. 

Why are you awake? John texted back. 

Sherlock is asleep and my mobile is not on my person. 

John felt a stab of disappointment when he realized Mycroft had texted John. Of course it was better that the detective was sleeping, but John missed him in a weird way. He wanted Sherlock back. 

Sherlock’s violin was packed tightly into its case beside the window. John had never seen it up close, really, and curiosity got the better of him. He gently removed it from its velvet bed, and passed a hand over the worn wood. Small details were carved into the sides in intricate designs of leaves and vines. John glanced at the f-hole; the word Stradivarius peered back at him. John had limited knowledge of musical instruments, but he knew enough to know that he was handling a violin that was most likely worth more than his whole life’s earnings. Feeling rather ill at the notion, he quickly returned it to the case, and shut it. He was dreading taking it in a cab. 

Now all he needed was Sherlock’s personal items. 

Unlike the sitting room’s vast collection of Sherlock debris and antique furnishings, Sherlock’s bedroom looked virtually uninhabited. His bed was the only sign of life, with wrinkled bedding from where the two of them had slept the night before. There was a bedside stand, a chair, and a closet. John went to the closet and opened the doors. He was immediately met with a horrible stench, like something had died. He grumbled, sure that Sherlock had stashed a rotting arm or brain or some oddity there. He pulled back a bin of socks which rattled rather alarmingly. John momentarily put his attention to this, and after a moment of closer investigating he found near 50 empty bottles of laxatives. Biting his tongue, he dug around Sherlock's closet a bit more and then discovered bag upon bag of vomit. John didn't know whether to be disgusted or heartbroken. He ran to the kitchen and grabbed the trash bin, and busied himself throwing away the bags and bottles. No more surprises please, he thought, and quickly took the trash outside. 

Back inside, John packed up a bag of Sherlock's things (though Sherlock seemed to have unlimited funds to purchase skulls and drugs and million-dollar violins, the man owned hardly any practical items a man ought to own), grabbed his own case and the violin, and anxiously left the flat. He suddenly wanted to be very far from the place that Sherlock had come undone in. Laxatives? And bagged vomit? John never imagined Sherlock would go that far. John never imagined Sherlock would do any of this. 

The streets were mostly empty--the taste of winter in the air must have deterred the usual nighttime crowd to their own cozy abodes. John was envious of them. Right now he felt homeless, and hailed a cab to the man that made him feel home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In Doyle's original story The Adventure of the Cardboard Box (1892), Sherlock was said to own a Stradivarius (pronounced Stradivari). I personally play the violin as well, and Stradivarius are worth millions, as there are under 1000 left in the world, and all violins are held to the standard Stradivarius holds.


	15. Touch

Sherlock was jolted awake at 04:00. 

“How do you feel?” an unfamiliar doctor peered down at him after flicking all the lights on. Sherlock blinked at their glaring brightness. John, who had been presumably asleep in a chair in the corner of the room, was squinting and looking around in confusion. 

“How do you bloody think I feel?” Sherlock growled. His throat felt like sandpaper and his mouth tasted like ketosis. Of course he felt awful and ill and exhausted and he more than anything wanted to be back at 221B with John asleep the room over, and the familiar sounds of taxi cars slowly whirring past outside the window. He was instead confined to a bed with very uncomfortable scratchy sheets, and with unfamiliar sounds and smells that constantly threatened to send him over the edge into a panic attack. He felt dirty. 

John had never seen this side of him, and Sherlock was appalled at his own reaction to the recent events. He was supposed to be above emotion, and yet he had been a complete mess. Would John see him differently after the admission? Did John see him differently now? 

“Sorry, Mister Holmes, your--” 

“Get out!” 

“Mister Holmes, your heart rate dropped to an alarmingly low rate while you were--” 

“Dull!” Sherlock complained, waving her away with his free hand. “If you are going to burst into my room while I am sleeping at some absurd hour of the morning, do have something important to say. You can get back to your online affair now, judging from the constant buzzing in your pocket your _friend_ has a great deal to say to or show you.” 

The doctor’s lips parted in surprise--Sherlock hated this sort of adulturer. Always so easy to read. He preferred people who weren’t an open book. People who knew how to keep secrets. This woman stank of desperation. Her face was flushed, and she was breathing at a quick rate. Sherlock could see the sex in her eye, could see the lust and dishonesty splayed across her face, as if someone had taken paint and written UNFAITHFUL along her brow. 

Sherlock frowned. He could read her. He had been struggling to see through people since becoming so malnourished. Was he pleased that this skill was back? Sherlock considered it. It wasn’t that he had lost his ability to see the details everyone else missed. He could still solve crimes, of course, but he had lost his edge. He hadn’t been seeing everything, as he had before. More like 95%. Which was still far better than the commoner’s roughly 30%. He wasn’t sure that he cared about the last 5%. Sherlock pursed his lips. He could comprehend the world far better in that moment than in months, and was surprised to realize that this did not make him happy. This meant that he was getting fat. Food led to nourishment, which led to clarity. Though he liked the outcome, it wasn’t worth going through the first step. He could feel his control on the situation slip like water through his fingers. He was gaining. 

“I don’t know what you are implying, Mister Holmes, but it is unprofessional. You are a professional man, aren’t you? Please behave as such.” She came to his bed and helped him into a sitting position. Sherlock sighed as the cool surface of the stethoscope made its way down his back. He breathed as she instructed, and she listened to his chest and checked his IV site and pupils and tube. John watched from his chair. Sherlock felt bare and exposed. He complied with the doctor’s instructions simply because he wanted her to leave. 

Through her quick exam, Sherlock found he couldn’t look away from John. Had he always looked this beaten down and worn? He must’ve aged years since Sherlock really, really looked at him. He had terrible dark bags under his eyes, and he looked lost. He was beautiful still, and Sherlock watched as John wearily followed the movements of the doctor. He wished John was touching him instead of her. 

Wait. 

He wanted John to touch him? 

No. Sherlock stood in his mind palace. He brought up John’s file. Studied it. Sifted through the pages and pages of information. It was the biggest box of paper in his whole library, full of useless crap that Sherlock knew he would never delete. Favorite color. Favorite number. How he took his tea, what kind of bread he bought, the brand of socks he wore. Childhood incidents and photos (he had done some thorough research). War photos (why did they make his body ache?). Sherlock had become almost human for John. 

Sherlock waved away this box and pulled up his own limited file. He looked for the one on touch. There wasn’t much, only a small tourniquet at the bottom of the box that brought up a rush of emotion. He remembered his earlier experiences with contact. A band wrapped around his arm as he shot up, and Mycroft holding it through the window of an ambulance as unfamiliar hands held him down. Why was _this_ his data on touch? He couldn’t remember, only that he wanted to delete this memory and replace it with one of John. He could feel himself being dragged back to that place, with those hands on him again, the Not-John hands, and the roughness and franticness of that moment startled him. His body burned, and he very quickly pulled his focus back and flung the cloth away from him. The grip of the memory lessened, and faded altogether. Ever since that specific moment, he had avoided contact like the plague. He had always had adverse reactions to any sort of taction before, but that incident back in 2007 had irreversibly damaged his ability to stand contact of any sort. 

Well, irreversibly before John. John had changed things. 

He needed a new file on touch. But not now. He had other things to focus on, and god knows that once Sherlock started recalling all the times he and John had touched to file away, he would never be able to move on. 

Sherlock brought up the images of himself naked and studied them. Gaunt. Disgusting. Sherlock looked down at himself. He had so much _work_ to do. He didn’t really want John to touch him, did he? 

Sherlock convinced himself he didn’t. He didn’t want anyone to touch him until he was beautiful. And then...maybe? 

_No, I’ll figure it out later._ He dismissed the issue. 

A creeping coldness snapped Sherlock back. He exited the foyer of his Mind Palace to find that the doctor had hooked up a new (freezing) bag of fluids and left. John was staring at him, and he felt frustrated that he couldn’t just get up and pace. He always felt like pacing when there was a John Issue, as if physical exertion could somehow draw up a conclusion, like an equation on paper. Running, stabbing, shooting, pacing. It all helped. 

Starving? 

Sherlock felt like starving. He missed the emptiness. His hunger cues had all but disappeared, and emptiness felt just as good as anything. Better, really. He loved it. 

Sherlock suddenly felt very ill. He was uncomfortable and nauseous, and his legs were swollen and painful, along with his abdomen. The cold liquids chased the warmth from his body, and he could feel it spreading out like a poison. The tape on his face itched, and the tube was very unpleasant, and Sherlock tried to process all of these sensations at once, _pain, sick, pain, cold, itchy, pain, scratchy, uncomfortable, pain,_ and he felt his chest grow tighter and then he could feel it coming he was going to scream he was just _oh my god I want t o g o h ome p l e a s e i can't_ \---- 

“Sherlock.” 

A soft touch on his hand. 

_John._

Sherlock forgot all of the other sensory inputs at once and just tried to cling to the safety of John’s warmth on his skin. 

_John._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the way this story initially was written in the first chapters was (so I've been told) more eloquent I suppose, and yes, that is intentional. Eating disorders ravage the mind, and leave complete destruction in their wake. Thought processes are very difficult to follow, and often don't make much sense. Ramblings, irrational thoughts, inability to process basic data, etc, happen too. 
> 
> Also, 2007 is in reference to the fic "2007," by J_Baillier and 7PercentSolution. Only the year, though, not what happened with the tourniquet. 
> 
> If you have anything you'd like to add to this story, or any ideas, feel free to drop your email and I will contact you!


	16. ama

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Compathy that may or may not be healthy. Sherlock is released AMA. Filler chapter. No serious TW necessary.

Sherlock was released AMA from the hospital 8 days later after. Mycroft hadn’t truly sectioned him, as he claimed, only threatened his brother into submission with a lie. Sherlock easily deduced this once he was back at his original capabilities during a morning visit, and subsequently requested (demanded, threatened the nurses) the discharge papers. 

Sherlock was stable enough, a few kilos heavier (he was 55kg now, with a BMI of 16.41, which made his skin crawl), and overwhelmingly miserable. His mind could function with the newfound nourishment, but he found he no longer cared much. Who minded if criminals ran the streets, really? It wasn’t _really_ his problem. He was disgusting, and felt downright embarrassed to be seen in public. His weight was still technically low, but all he could see was that there was more to him, and he hated it. He was grateful for his coat, which did a decent job of hiding his body, but he was sure some of the rolls would show through nonetheless. He could feel his skin stretched tight from all the added fat. His legs were swollen with edema, and they itched and burned and when Sherlock thought about it too much he could feel his chest tighten and his breath quicken. It was too much sensory input, with not enough output. His mind palace had recently been starved for information, and now everything Sherlock processed refused to be unprocessed. Sherlock was normally able to filter out the unimportant information, such as physical unpleasantries and the like, but right now he couldn’t filter anything out. He was sure he was on the spectrum, but he could manage it decently under most circumstances. This was not most circumstances, and now everything was overwhelming him and threatening to send him into a panic attack or meltdown. 

Sherlock had ways to avoid this. He didn’t have “meltdowns.” Sherlock did drugs when his mind palace wasn’t working. Sherlock did drugs when his mind palace _was_ working. Sherlock did drugs. He scratched at his legs until his fingertips were bloody. Starvation had the same effect as drugs did, plus they dulled his mind palace into a quiet distant _whir_. He would achieve this effect again soon enough, but it would take a couple days of low restriction to get back there. He needed the dullness now. Drugs provided instant relief. 

So did John, though. Instant relief. Better relief. Safer(?) relief. 

Sherlock wanted to go home. Sherlock wanted to go back to John. He signed the discharge papers quickly. 

John had thrown a fit when Sherlock had waltzed back into 221B. John wasn’t in on this, in on his release, not at all, because John was good and kind and loved— 

_loved?_

Sherlock. Loved him in a completely platonic way, yes, platonic. He loved Sherlock enough to want what was best for his health, and everyone could see that hospitalization was what was best for Sherlock’s health. 

Sherlock had, of course, ignored John’s sputtering (even though he wanted to hear John’s voice, please, talk to me John, tell me it’ll be okay), stripped his contaminated _hospital_ clothes, and headed for the shower. He felt dirty. His arms were sore from repeated needle sticks and the IV, and his abdomen was still bloated. He had read the bloat would go down in time, and he willed it to disappear quicker. He was sure that the majority of his weight gain was water, and not real weight, but...he looked so ugly. John had ignored Sherlock when he returned, wrapped in his robe. Sherlock frowned and slapped a nicotine patch on his arm, and threw himself onto the couch. He paused for a moment to inhale the familiar scents of 221B, his racing mind quiet with the drug’s aid. He let himself relish in the brief moment of calamity, pretending that everything was as it was before. The stillness, the smell of John’s forgotten tea, the soft thump, thump of Ms. Hudson walking around downstairs. It was as if he had never left; had never changed. He wanted to live in this moment forever, where he was who he had always been, where John was there, where the nicotine was calming him and the leather couch wrapped itself around his body, and he was safe. 

The couch shifted at Sherlock’s feet, and he looked up. John. He narrowed his eyes, bracing himself for John’s anger. He hated it. He could deal with Mycroft’s, and Anderson’s, but John’s was different. John’s anger _hurt _.__

__“Sherlock. You need to go back.”_ _

__Sherlock rolled onto his side, his back to John, and pulled his legs up._ _

__“Weren’t you sectioned?”_ _

__“Mycroft wasn’t entirely honest about the terms of my admittance.”_ _

__“Sherlock, you need to go back.”_ _

__“I’m a healthy weight now.”_ _

__“I can’t just sit back and pretend that you are okay!”_ _

__Sherlock’s heart ached at the notion of John’s desiderium for his “recovery.” He didn’t want to hurt John. He didn’t want to hurt John. Sherlock took a deep breath and pulled a blanket over himself. He retreated into his mind palace._ _


End file.
